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My painting began as a surface, but more and more it behaves like a place. I am not interested merely in constructing images: I am interested in building sensitive territories, spaces where matter, light, and the body can enter into a relationship. This search did not appear suddenly. It has a concrete origin: the isolation, the refuge, the boat, the Rincón Náutico, the need to transform a precarious space into a studio and to sustain a pictorial practice in the midst of the elements. During the pandemic, the act of painting ceased to be solely an artistic decision and became a form of permanence. To paint was to build a place when everything seemed suspended. Since then, my work began to shift. Painting no longer wanted to remain enclosed within the frame as a frontal image. It began to ask for scale, body, path, darkness, light, distance, silence. It began to demand spatial conditions to unfold. The surface became insufficient because the work began to behave as an experience. In this process, the refuge was the first model of an inhabitable work. The Sylene was not just a boat: it was a minimal architecture of survival, a floating border between the outside world and an intimate zone of resistance. The Rincón Náutico of the San Fernando Club island was not just a workplace either: it was the first untamed territory, a space where painting could appear without asking for permission, traversed by the river, the night, the humidity, the precariousness, and the necessity. This experience still remains in my current research. It appears in Territories of the Last Song, where painting is organized as an extreme landscape, memory, collapse, and signal. It appears in Membranes / The Untamed Frontier, where the work ceases to be a fixed surface and becomes a threshold, skin, passage, and suspended body. It appears in Stellar Heartbeat, where light enters as living matter and painting begins to breathe in cycles of appearance and disappearance. These works are not isolated projects. They are different forms of the same question: how to build a painting that is not only looked at, but traversed? How to make matter cease to be background and become presence? How to convert the image into territory, the canvas into membrane, and light into a heartbeat? I am interested in thinking of painting as a sensitive architecture. An architecture that is not functional, but existential. A space where the viewer can come into contact with something that cannot be fully explained: a vibration, a loss, a force that insists, a signal against going dark. In that direction, the work begins to expand toward increasingly complex formats: large surfaces, deep stretchers, suspended membranes, inhabitable structures, lighting devices, immersive paths, and systems where painting, body, and space can no longer be separated. Painting becomes environment. The work no longer ends at the edge of the canvas: it continues in the shadow, in the light, in the distance, in the way the body approaches or stops in front of it. This displacement also implies a concrete need: production space. Not as a comfort, but as a condition for the work. There are projects that cannot be conceived solely from a desk, a domestic wall, or an improvised corner. They need real scale, assembly time, light tests, tension trials, distance to look, a place to make mistakes, correct, and rebuild. The current research of my work needs this passage: from the frame to the territory, from the image to space, from painting as an object to painting as an inhabitable experience. It is not about abandoning painting, but about pushing it to its limit. Forcing it until it begins to behave as a refuge, a border, a body, a signal, and a presence. That is why the idea of an inhabitable painting is not a formal whim. It is a natural consequence of my journey. It is born from isolation, from the boat, from the studio in the elements, from the Pandemic series, from the territories that still sing, from the membranes that separate and let through, from the lights that fade and ignite again. An inhabitable painting is a work that is not content with being seen. It wants to surround, affect, contain, make uncomfortable, protect, and reveal. It wants to build an experience where the viewer is not in front of an image, but inside a tension. My current work stands within that tension: between the primitive and the contemporary, between the cave and the device, between dark matter and the ignited signal, between the refuge and the elements. Painting, for me, is building a territory where something of human sensitivity can resist. A place to cross the limit. A space where matter still breathes. An untamed signal against going dark.

My work is not born from a closed image, but from a persistent investigation into the limit: between matter and energy, between the body and the territory, between the visible and that which remains hidden, between disappearance and resistance. From this tension, three projects are organized, which today form part of the same conceptual line of work: Territories of the Last Song, Membranes / The Untamed Frontier, and Stellar Heartbeat. I do not think of them as separate works, but as stations of the same pictorial journey. Each one approaches, from a different materiality, a common question: what shape does that which insists on remaining take when everything seems to extinguish? Territories of the Last Song In Territories of the Last Song, painting appears as an extreme landscape. Not as a literal representation of a place, but as an emotional, ancestral, and spiritual territory. The “last song” is not merely a farewell: it is a signal, a final vibration that still resists before going dark. It can be the song of a wounded culture, of a threatened species, of a collective memory, of a human sensitivity devastated by the speed of the contemporary world. There, I work with large surfaces, glazes, atmospheric layers, fracture zones, and chromatic fields that seem to exist between water, ice, sky, and ash. The painting is organized as a territory in transformation: something that collapses, but still sings. In this series, the support functions as an extension of the body and the landscape. The work does not illustrate a loss: it embodies it. The pictorial matter becomes a remnant, a trace, sediment, a vibration. Membranes / The Untamed Frontier If territory appears in Territories of the Last Song, the threshold appears in Membranes / The Untamed Frontier. The membrane is a living border. It does not separate rigidly: it lets through, filters, resists, breathes. It is skin, veil, surface, wound, and passage. I am interested in working with the idea of the border not as a fixed political line, but as a sensory experience. Every border is also a question: what remains inside, what remains outside, who can cross, who is held back on the other side? In The Untamed Frontier, painting expands into a more spatial and immersive dimension. Looking at it head-on is no longer enough: the work needs to be traversed, surrounded, inhabited. The membranes function as suspended bodies, as remnants of a primitive architecture, as signals of a territory that refuses to be domesticated. Light, transparency, canvas, the tension of the support, and scale construct a space of passage. The viewer does not merely observe a work: they confront a limit. And that limit is not uniquely external. It is also internal. The untamed frontier is the point where identity disarms and rebuilds itself. Stellar Heartbeat In Stellar Heartbeat, the investigation concentrates on the internal energy of the work. Painting no longer just constructs territory or frontier: it begins to beat. Light appears as living matter, not as a decorative resource. Its function is not to embellish the painting, but to reveal a hidden pulsation. The work breathes in cycles: it ignites, reaches intensity, slowly descends until it disappears, and is then born again. This movement is not merely technical. It is existential. There is a vital insistence in that light that fades and returns. A minimal but persistent resistance. A body that refuses to fully disappear. Stellar Heartbeat takes to the extreme a question already present in the previous series: what remains of matter when it comes into contact with the invisible, what remains of the body when it becomes energy, what remains of painting when it ceases to be a surface and becomes a presence? The work must sustain itself in two states: off and on. Without light, it must exist as an autonomous painting, with material, chromatic, and compositional strength. With light, it must reveal another dimension: a deep, stellar, almost ritual zone. A Single Investigation These three projects form a single cartography. Territories of the Last Song works with landscape as memory and disappearance. Membranes / The Untamed Frontier works with the threshold as passage and tension. Stellar Heartbeat works with light as vital energy and persistence. Territory, frontier, and heartbeat: three ways of thinking about the same pulse, the need to leave a mark on the world before disappearing. My painting is born from that tension between the primitive and the contemporary. Between the cave and the device. Between the ancestral gesture and lighting technology. Between dark matter and the ignited signal. I do not seek to represent the wild. I seek to allow the wild to act within the work. The wild not as exoticism, but as a force prior to domestication. As sensitive energy, as spiritual resistance, as a zone not yet colonized by language. In this sense, my pictorial research shifts more and more toward an expanded work: painting, installation, light, body, space, and time. Painting ceases to be a frozen image to become an experience. A work can be territory, membrane, and heartbeat. It can open a threshold, sustain a question, and leave a form of resistance ignited. That is where my work stands today: in the attempt to build a painting that is not only looked at, but traversed; that does not only represent a loss, but makes it vibrate; that does not only speak of disappearance, but confronts it with matter, light, and pulse. Painting, for me, is just that: building a signal against going dark. An untamed signal.

Some time ago, in a gallery, I was asked a simple question: “Why do you paint?” The answer seemed easy. However, the more I thought about it, the harder it became. For years, I believed I painted to find a place. Perhaps to gain legitimation. Perhaps so someone would understand that which I often found difficult to explain. Maybe as a form of acceptance for that rebel, that misfit, who has always lived within me. But that answer did not entirely convince me. Then, another word appeared: immortality. Not the immortality of fame or recognition. I am not so much interested in my name surviving as I am in a trace surviving. Something similar to what happened with those who left their hands imprinted in cave paintings or erected monuments that spanned centuries. I think of those paintings made thousands of years ago. We do not know who their authors were. Their names disappeared. Yet, something of them remains there: their gesture, their presence, their sensitivity. I understood then that what moves me about those works is not just their antiquity, but their capacity to traverse time and keep speaking. Perhaps that is why I paint. Not to represent the world. Not to illustrate ideas. Not to decorate spaces. I paint to leave a trace of sensitivity in time. As I deepened this reflection, an even more important certainty appeared: what I seek to preserve is not my image or my biography. What I am trying to preserve is a way of feeling. We live in an era that often pushes us toward speed, immediate utility, and permanent distraction. Against this, painting transforms for me into an act of resistance: a way to defend human sensitivity. That is where Savage Untamed appears. Over time, I understood that it is not just an artistic pseudonym. It is a symbolic figure. It is the part of me that protects what I consider essentially human: the capacity for wonder, emotion, intuition, mystery, the experience of the sacred, and the connection with that which cannot be fully explained. Savage Untamed rebels against everything that attempts to domesticate this sensitivity. It defends it, highlights it, and transforms it into painting. That is why I am drawn to thresholds, borders, uncertain territories, rifts, lights that appear and disappear, the last songs, and open landscapes. They are not themes. They are symbols. They all speak of the same place: the edge between the visible and the invisible, between the known and the unknown, between the finite and that which seems eternal. Perhaps that is why my works do not seek to offer answers. They seek to sustain questions. They seek to generate experiences. They seek to create a space where it is possible to intuit that reality is broader than what we habitually perceive. If someone were to ask me again today why I paint, I would probably answer: I paint to preserve a sensitivity that I consider essentially human. I paint to leave a trace in time. I paint because I feel there is something beyond the surface of things and I need to draw closer to it. I paint because painting is the way I found to dialogue with mystery. And perhaps, also, because within each work persists the hope that a part of this search will survive when I am no longer here.

Savage Untamed is not born as an artistic name conceived from the comfort of a desk. It is born after isolation. It is born on the edge. It is born when the world stops and the urgent need to build one's own refuge appears, so as not to go dark. During the 2020 pandemic, while borders closed and daily life hung in suspension, I found in the Sylene something more than a boat. It was a hideout, a minimal territory, a floating body, a temporary home, and a border against collapse. Living aboard was not merely a circumstance: it was a foundational experience. The boat forced me to coexist with silence, with water, with wood, with rust, with humidity, with solitude, and with a different form of time. Within that open confinement, surrounded by the river, a question began to emerge that still sustains my work: what remains of oneself when the known world goes dark? The nautical corner of the San Fernando Club island then became a territory of resistance. It was not a formal studio. It was not a space legitimized by the art circuit. It was a precarious, peripheral, almost secret refuge. But it was precisely there that the strength appeared. That place gradually transformed into a studio because painting needed to exist. The sails, the canvases, the nautical debris, the improvised stretchers, the available matter, and the atmosphere of the river began to blend with an inner necessity: to leave marks, to discharge energy, to construct signals. The pandemic did not only bring confinement. It also opened a rift. Within that rift, Savage Untamed appeared. Not as a character, but as a zone of truth. A part of me that no longer wanted to adapt entirely, that refused to return docilely to the previous order, that needed to defend a primitive sensitivity against an increasingly domesticated world. Savage Untamed emerges as a response to going dark. It emerges from isolation, but not to remain locked away. It emerges from the refuge, but to cross borders. It emerges from the river, the boat, and the improvised studio as a pictorial identity that understands painting as an act of survival. Painting in that context was a way of resisting. Not a heroic or discursive resistance, but a bodily one. Staining, scraping, covering, veiling, letting paint drop, working on surfaces tied to the journey and the elements. The work began to take the shape of an inner navigation. That is where the Pandemia 2020 series comes from. That is where the insistence on working with territories, borders, membranes, and heartbeats comes from. That is where the search for a painting that is not just an image comes from, but a presence, a remnant, a signal, and a refuge. The boat was the first threshold. The island studio was the first untamed territory. Painting was the way not to disappear. Since then, my work has been organized around that initial experience: the need to build a space of one's own in the midst of collapse. A space where matter can speak before language. Where the gesture retains something of the primitive. Where painting functions as a mark against oblivion. I do not paint to represent the pandemic. I paint from the transformation it produced within me. I paint from that moment when isolation ceased to be merely confinement and became a revelation: there was an inner strength that needed to get out, to take shape, to occupy a surface, to ignite. That strength is called Savage Untamed.

I do not start from a calm certainty. I paint from an uncomfortable place, in tension. Between what I know how to do and what is no longer enough. Between a practice that insists on materiality and an artistic field shifting toward the conceptual, the immediate, the reproducible. Painting, in this context, does not disappear. But it cannot remain intact either. That is the point where I work. I am not interested in defending painting as a tradition or justifying it as a technique. I am interested in putting it at risk. Displacing it. Taking it to a territory where it ceases to be just an image and begins to operate as something else: as a body, as a filter, as an experience. There emerges a question that is not quickly resolved: What does painting do today that nothing else can? I do not seek to answer it through representation. I do not paint scenes, nor narratives, nor recognizable objects. I work on states: latencies, tensions, transformations. On that which is not entirely fixed. Painting, then, ceases to be a surface to become a field where light acts, where space is modified, where the viewer does not merely look, but experiences a situation. This transformation is not formal. It is a decision. Because in a world where the image is immediate and automatic, insisting on painting is insisting on another temporality. On error. On accumulation. On the gesture that cannot be exactly repeated. And in that gesture, something political emerges. Not from explicit discourse, nor from the illustration of a conflict, but from experience itself. Making visible what is unseen. Working on what is in the process of disappearing. Constructing a perception that is not exhausted by the immediate. Painting, in tension, does not compete with other languages. It coexists with them, but from another place. Not from speed, but from insistence. That is where I choose to be. Not in the comfort of the known, nor in the imitation of what circulates today, but at that unstable point where painting can still say something that is not completely said. That place is not safe. But it is the only one that interests me.